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Trout Whisperer - September

Where I belong
It worked out good for me, I was late coming off the stream and he was late getting his haybales off the field. I could choose from several, I picked an easy one, one between me and a set of wheels that would carry me home, eventually.
I know where I am, I know where I should be, and I know I don’t want to miss right now this place. Don’t have any idea what’s to come of it, but I like it, I like where I am now.
The bale was long on the north side, I sat down benched against it, watching the sun slowly slide over tree tops, me foot tired, and, maybe, it tired of summer leaves.
The evening air wasn’t too cool, but the hay’s insulation, warm against my back, was surprisingly comfortable.
Three crows came from the east, flap, flap, floated over the field, nothing in the way of noisy caws, no hurried wing beats, they were just headed the way of sun.
I quit watching them when a lone doe slipped out onto the fresh mowed field.
Long black tree shadows, fresh cut hay, and the doe wasn’t so sure what to make of this recently cut field. And when she figured out that I wasn’t a natural part of the nature she was used to, she snorted, stomped, and pranced white tailed high back into the timber.
I think I could have sat there all night, maybe watching stars appear. Thinking, what if an owl hooted just now. Then a logging truck, lugging a load, lumbered down the road I was supposed to drive on, like a hint. Like maybe it’s time, time for me to get up, leave this warm hay bale and get me and a creel of brook trout home, where I belong. The trout whisperer

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